


Terry Dies in This One

by fckyeahgallavich



Series: Requests/Prompts [13]
Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Terry Milkovich, Gun Violence, Love, M/M, Supportive Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fckyeahgallavich/pseuds/fckyeahgallavich
Summary: I am not sure if you still take prompts or not, but I leave this here anyway, just in case. This is actually something I would love to see in s11 but know that JW will not do that. I want Mickey killing Terry. But not a planned murder, more in self defense. Mickey is alone at home and suddenly Terry is there and they have a huge physical fight while destroying half of the Gallagher inventory in the process.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Requests/Prompts [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/878244
Comments: 14
Kudos: 188





	Terry Dies in This One

His stomach was _roiling_ .

It--it was an accident!

Self-defense!

As much as Mickey had talked about killing his father, and despite how serious he’d been about it, nothing prepared him for actually _doing_ it. His throat collapsed and suddenly he was choking on the acrid, acid of vomit. _Flip over, moron, flip over!_ His subconscious pleaded with him. He _had_ to flip over or he’d die next! He tossed himself over, using every muscle in his back and shoulders to accomplish the task. He let his stomach and throat work through what they had to, choking and retching until finally his stomach settled enough for him to feel confident he was done.

He sucked in a breath through his mouth, and slowly released the air through his nose as his brain worked through what the fuck had just happened.

_Mickey was_ finally _home after a long morning of security at Old Army. He fuckin_ hated _the job, but as Ian kept reminding him — it wasn’t the meat-packing plant, it wasn’t backbreaking labor, and it wasn’t illegal. Still, he changed out of the dorky uniform as soon as his shift was over and hopped on a job search as soon as he got home — Well, after grabbing a beer and a smoke._

_His run for beer was interrupted, though, by the back door bursting open, Terry Milkovich standing in the doorway with a .42 glock raised. Mickey ducked jst in time for Terry to fire, fracturing the fiberglass casing on the fridge._

_“The fuck Terry?!” Mickey called as he reached for his own .45 in the top drawer. Terry was in front of him, spittle flying as he screamed something about warning him what would happen if he’d marry a man... Mickey kicked out, making contact with his father’s shin, just above the ankle, sending Terry’s next shot out to the living room somewhere from the shock and impact._

_With the butt of his gun, Mickey struck a kneecap and tackled Terry to the floor._

_“Get off me you_ fuckin FAGGOT!” _Terry screamed. Mickey raised the butt of his gun to once again strike Terry, this time against the temple or browbone as he’d done to Mickey so many years ago. Just then, though, Terry shot his gun again, the searing burning pain at his wrist told Mickey the bullet had just grazed him, but it shocked him so bad the gun slipped from his grip, collapsing on Terry’s face with a sharp clink and thud as it clacked against the linoleum. Mickey punched Terry and knocked his .42 out of his hand, sliding his own weapon away so Terry couldn’t reach. His next instinct kicked in and Mickey wrapped his hands around Terry’s throat — just long enough to make him pass out…_ please! _Using all of his strength, though, Terry headbutt Mickey with a sharp_ crack _and for just long enough, Mickey was disarmed. Terry wiped Mickey’s arms away and tossed him off him to the floor. Before Mickey could get back up, Terry had regained his footing, so to speak, raising to his knees to crouch over Mickey’s form and start landing punch after punch after punch. Mickey curled into himself, knowing Terry would get winded and search for his weapon soon enough… But not before raising to full-standing and kicking Mickey right between the legs._

 _As he fought the_ incredible _urge to vomit, Mickey rolled over to his dad’s gun and flipped onto his back to see that Terry was still stooped down to pick up Mickey’s gun across the kitchen. Mickey scrambled through the pain to standing, raising the gun. Terry, surprisingly, froze at seeing Mickey up and armed._

_“Drop it, Dad!” Mickey shouted. “Drop it and walk away!”_

_But Terry only assumed a shooter’s stance, giving Mickey exactly one second to duck out of shot before his father fired. He crept to the wall so he was flush against it, well out of Terry’s periphery, and struck at the back of Terry’s head with the butt of his gun, the impact reverberating through the palm of Mickey's closed hand._

_Terry slumped forward, crashing to the ground with a resounding thud that Mickey felt deep in the pit of his stomach. He sighed and kicked the gun out of Terry’s hand before picking it up and preparing to dispose of the illegal firearm._

_This was gonna be a_ hell _of a call to 911. But first thing was first, he had to store his .45 in the storage closet under the house where he was sure Larry would never think to look if he ever felt the need after all of this commotion. The call to the police was next but Mickey had to get his story straight. As he entered the house again, he couldn't see Terry's body... He rushed forward into the living room and Mickey rubbed at his eyes and brow in confusion and panic… Terry's body was no where to be found._

FUCK!

_Big arms wrapped around his shoulders and Mickey tossed Terry’s gun, the one he told 911 that he’d confiscated from the intruder, away just as Terry reached for it. He whirled around with a kick to Terry’s shin and punched him in the face once, twice, three times before Terry got a solid shot at Mickey’s ribs. Mickey sucked in air and tripped the other man before he could get too close to the gun. Terry ended up taking him right down with him._

_From there it was all a blur of fists and teeth and insults._

_Terry grabbed the gun and he was on top and… Oh God, Ian, his husband and love of his life, was going to find_ his _husband — the love of_ his _life — dead on the living room floor… And what about Ian? Would Terry leave him alone or would he join his fate?_

 _No, he could_ not _let that happen!_

 _One bullet screamed by his ear, striking into the record player. Another met something wooden about ten feet to Mickey’s right. This_ had _to be the last bullet. Please_ PLEASE

**BAM**

_Mickey froze._

_How had the gun been positioned between them? He… his whole body chilled and he actually trembled. Was he shot?_

_Terry coughed in Mickey’s face, splatters of blood spraying across his face before Terry collapsed on him, squishing all breath out of his lungs._

Mickey ran his hands over his face to wipe the blood away, small grunts of disgust sounding as he wiped the blood on his jeans before returning to his face to wipe off more.

He heard his name, he knew he did, but for some reason he couldn't answer (or refused to answer?) The inflection of the tone rose to complete panic and Mickey knew he should answer but he also knew he'd be discovered soon enough. He was only fifteen feet into the house sitting upright under the wall with the giant hole in it. It wasn't like he was hiding.

The next thing he knew Ian was in his face, fingers tracing over the details of his face, running through his hair, eyes running across every inch of Mickey's face, neck, torso, arms, legs--taking inventory. Mickey was so dazed, all he could do was grab one of Ian's hands, his left he realized a moment later with his left... huh... And he studied their rings bumping against each other as Ian intertwined their fingers.

"Mickey, baby what happened?"

Baby... That had to be the sweetest, most conventional nickname he'd ever called him. His brain didn't even focus on the question, just that name. In all of the years they'd spent together he'd never felt like Ian's " _baby,"_ that was just not them. But in this moment it actually made him feel... better somehow. His stomach settled so it was no longer a raging sea of nausea and emotion but was now a settled pool of unease. Unease he could handle.

"Terry.... he's dead," Mickey mumbled beneath Ian's continued pleas for Mickey to explain. Ian paused, allowing Mickey to repeat himself this time with much more conviction. "He's dead." Ian turned to take in the sight of the older psychopath's body laying face-down in his living room. He also seemed to catch the puddle of Mickey's vomit and returned to his husband.

"Are you okay? Oh my god, please tell me he didn't get you too."

"Just my balls," Mickey laughed remembering the kick to them. Ian's brows furrowed but he didn't say anything though he was clearly disturbed by Mickey's reaction. Hell, Mickey was worried about himself with how he was acting. Suddenly all of the humor washed out of Mickey at the sight of Ian's distraught face. "This must be shock, huh?" he heard himself ask. Ian's eyes softened even more and he sniffed before running his fingers once again through Mickey's hair.

"Yeah, Mick. You're in shock," he replied softly. Then Ian was gone and Mickey just stared at the body of Terry Milkovich.

"What _happened?"_ A shrill voice erupted from the front door--Debbie.

"Uncle MICKEY!" His niece called and she ran forward, collapsing into his chest (draping over his propped knee that he couldn't budge).

"Get her out of here," Mickey demanded, turning the four year old away before she could catch sight of the dead fucking body not even four feet from her. Debbie was frozen from shock of her own and finally Mickey jumped up from his seated position and he turned the child away pushing her a little too roughly toward her mother.

"Debbie! Get her away!"

Next thing he knew Franny was no where in sight and Debbie was begging him to relax because Franny was fine. 

"Mickey, Mickey," it's okay. She didn't see him. She just wanted to make sure her Uncle Mickey was okay," Ian whispered in his ear.

"I'M RIGHT NEXT TO THE FUCKING BODY--" He stopped at the word 'body' and wretched again at the memory of the gun going off -- the sheer terror of that half of a minute that he wasn't sure if he was the one shot and just couldn't feel it from the adrenaline. Ian placed two large hands on Mickey's shoulders and kissed the back of his head, soothingly rubbing a thumb across his shoulder blade.

"I'm sorry," he murmured to no one in particular.

"It's okay," Debbie answered gently, resting a supportive hand on his shoulder which he wriggled off in a matter of seconds. Only Ian. _Only_ Ian was allowed to touch him. Just like when they were fuckin kids. He fuckin _hated_ that. Ian hugged Mickey even closer and rest his forehead against the side of Mickey's head, just above the shell of his ear. He could hear the uneasy breaths of Ian, could still feel the worry and panic thrumming through Ian's limbs wrapped around him like strong vines. Normally he'd have told Ian to get the fuck off him by this point, but it was grounding almost.... Feeling Ian's strength and love and concern made him feel almost like this whole thing was going to be alright.

Carl arrived about five minutes later and then Lip. But it was all a blur to Mickey. He said nothing until suddenly the word "911" came out of someone's mouth.

"NO! No, we dispose of him ourselves. We.... We pull the teeth, burn the body, toss the bones... he'll just disappear. No one will even miss him!" Mickey argued, his brain suddenly rushing with possibilities. Maybe the shock was finally wearing off.

"You want to go back to prison?" Lip and Ian asked at the same time but in different tones. Lip asked it matter-of-factly but Ian almost sounded like Mickey had betrayed their wedding vows.

"You only go to prison if you get caught," Mickey argued. "Plus, it was fuckin self defense!"

"All the more reason to call it in, Mickey," Debbie reasoned.

"For real, man. Not calling it in's just going to make shit harder on yourself," Carl agreed.

"They're going to see one Milkovich dead and one Milkovich alive and call it a fuckin homicide in two seconds!"

"Look at this place! Does this _look_ like a homicide?" someone asked.

"A messy one, yeah!" Mickey shot back.

"Mick." Ian used a reasonable tone, one that demanded Mickey's attention. "The back door is practically off its hinges and there's only one gun. You _have_ defensive wounds. We _have_ to call."

"I'm telling you, they're going to pin this on me in two seconds, I'll be in their cop car givin my statement and facin interrogation at the same fuckin time," Mickey insisted.

"No," Ian murmured with strength and conviction but also a tenderness that melted away some of Mickey's fear. "This was self defense. They're going to know see that, and we're here to verify it. Hell, everyone in the neighborhood heard his threats when we got married. They'll tell 'em! You're not going back to prison -- at least not without me." Mickey sighed and held out his hand for a phone.

Less than half an hour later, the front door burst in and suddenly the room was flooded with cops and EMTs--cops well armed and armored and EMTs following close. Against the wall, standing four feet from his father's body, Mickey held his hands up and found sudden fascination in the blood drying around his wrist where he'd been grazed early in the squabble. Ian was in the kitchen getting Mickey some water and Mickey heard him make a snide comment about knocking so Ian could simply _get_ the door. The police ignored Ian's smart-assery.

"He dead or unconscious, son?" The first cop asked Mickey as he cautiously approached Terry's body, ignoring Ian completely.

"It.... it was self defense," Mickey replied dazedly from his position against the wall, having not budged an inch since the Gallaghers got home. The cop's eyes held sympathy as he holstered his weapon, the cops behind him following suit. Mickey swallowed in relief and slid down the wall, knowing he was going to be interviewed at some point soon and rest his forearms on his knees, hissing as his left made contact with the rough denim fabric of his jeans. The fuck?

A burn... Must've been from when the final shot went off... He must have redirected the gun at _just_ the right angle with his forearm so it went off into Terry. 

His stomach swirled again at the thought. He'd... God, he'd _killed_ his father.

It was different saying you're going to do something, even with all of the conviction in the world, and actually _doing_ it.

He leaned over to the right, almost certain he was going to puke again, but regained his composure and leaned back against the wall--where Ian suddenly was, sitting beside him. Ian used his strength to sit between his legs. Mickey twisted to look up at Ian's face, and accepted Ian's hand, once again watching in fascination as their rings clinked against each other. Most of the shock had worn off, but his guard was still let down enough that he didn't even bother worrying who saw him and Ian be so tender with each other. Ordinarily Mickey wasn't the type to be super affectionate with Ian in front of anyone else, and usually Ian was exactly the same way. But fuck it. As Mickey gave his statement, Ian rubbed at Mickey's shoulders and ran his palms up and down his chilled arms.

Ian helped Mickey undress and gently pulled him into the shower where Mickey finally let out all of the pent-up emotion he'd not even intentionally withheld. Mickey trembled against Ian's body which was strong and stable. His arms wrapped around Mickey so tight he could probably reach his own sides, and Mickey didn't mind one bit being held so tightly. They were so close it was as though they shared a skin.

They had needed to take Mickey in to the police station where he had to give a statement and talk to the DA. It was looking like Mickey's worst nightmare was about to come true -- going down for a completely justifiable action.

But _finally_ they let Mickey go, knowing all of the evidence pointed to justifiable homicide. After thirteen hours... Mickey was finally home and in his husband's arms. The whole thing had been a complete blur and Mickey was certain that he had blocked out most of the details for necessity, otherwise he would have done something stupid that _certainly_ would have got him arrested.

"I thought... God all I could think... was what would happen if you came home and he was still here and I.... and I was gone?"

"You were worried about what would happen to _me?_ Mick..."

"I just... If the roles were reversed and this shit had happened to you--"

"No, we're not playing the comparison game and we're not fixating on what could have happened." Ian took Mickey's face in his hands, gently pulling his chin up so they made a solid eye contact. Ian wiped away some of Mickey's tears before resting his forehead against Mickey's. "I'm just so glad you're okay, Mick. I really can't even say, I love you so much." 

Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian's waist and trailed his hands to curl over his shoulders. They held each other under that spray until the water went cold and then Mickey trembled for a new reason.

Ian shut off the water and handed Mickey a towel which Mickey immediately wrapped around his waist without bothering to dry off the rest of his body. Stepping out of the tub, Mickey stepped right back into Ian's arms where he just breathed in _Ian._

"I'm glad I'm okay too," Mickey whispered into Ian's chest. Ian stalled but tugged Mickey into him tighter and they embraced for a long, long time. 


End file.
